


Centre Mass

by autoschediastic



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), The Unit
Genre: Coming Untouched, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Power Dynamics, Substitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kid’s as tangled up as the rest of the poor fuckers, but unlike them, nobody’s gonna hold his hand, tell him it’s alright. Could be this is a version of that comfort, but Mack’s not fool enough to believe that, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centre Mass

Magazine empty, Chuck lets the point of his weapon dip. He glances from left to right at what he can see of the other cadets and their targets. The earmuffs don't do much to drown out the echos of shot after shot and he blows out a slow breath as he reloads, tries to ease the tension from his shoulders. This racket is nothing like the inside of a pod.

“Reload,” comes the instructor's gruff voice behind him.

The tone's not the same, the cadence all wrong, not _Herc_ , but it gets Chuck's back up just the same. “I am,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ Yank.”

“Faster.” Hands reach around him, pluck the fresh mag from his grasp to slot it into place. “The way you shoot, you're gonna need as many bullets as you can get.”

Training is the only thing that keeps Chuck from shouldering the guy off. Instead, he lets the instructor make minute changes to his stance, a foot to the outside of his to narrow it slightly, a light touch to his elbow to bring his arms level. “Sir,” he says once it's done, acknowledgement and dismissal all rolled into one.

Hand still on Chuck's arm, the instructor asks, “You don't agree?”

Chuck lets out another slow, even breath and drags his gaze from the scar on the back of the guy's wrist to his target. They're all body shots--centre mass, this guy said--not clustered nearly as tightly as the instructor's demonstration but not bad. There's a shoulder shot he's not proud of, another one below the belt that had made him wince, and still his target's looking less like the swiss cheese his classmates are making. “No, sir,” Chuck says. “I don't.”

Without a word, the instructor presses close behind him, hands around his on the gun. Chuck's breath freezes in his lungs. Seven shots go off in quick succession, each one driving Chuck more solidly against the the guy's chest. Even he can tell their grip's no good, their stance fucked, but when he looks at his target, the centre's blown out like it never was.

“Look, kid,” the instructor says, still flush to Chuck's back, “I don't care who you are in the suit. Out of it--”

“Striker Eureka,” Chuck says, turning his head just enough to glimpse the hard line of the instructor's jaw in the corner of his eye. The careless stubble lining it is almost the exact same colour, Chuck's sure. It's been awhile since the old man's come round, though, so maybe not. “The Mark V’s mine when I graduate.”

“Good for you,” says the guy without an ounce of sincerity. “And you're a dead body if you believe making a fuss about who you think you are is going to get you out of a bad situation.”

Around them, the noise level's slowly dying. Cadets are leaning out of their cubbies, stealing glances. Anybody that missed how much this guy looks like Chuck’s old man for sure and certain is noticing now. Prick’s even looking for excuses to give him a dressing down he doesn’t deserve. The heat staining Chuck’s neck creeps south.

“Right now,” the instructor bellows, stepping back to bring all their focus on him, “all of you are recruits. And like all recruits, you don't know shit until I tell you you do. So load up!” A chorus of metallic clicks go up, the shuffling of feet, a few dutiful _yessirs_. His focus shifts back to Chuck. “You got anything else you want to say, boy?”

Chest tight, Chuck says, “No, sir.”

“Then you work out any problem you got on him,” says the instructor, levelling a finger at the new target sliding into place.

“Sir,” Chuck says, and does as he's told.

*

The motel's got shitty decor, shitty reception, shitty water pressure, and Mack likes it just fine. Easier to settle here than at the Academy. The world’s always going to need boots on the ground, bodies prepared to be buried in it, but a man at war needs more than only one brother at his back. Not even in the pods yet and some of those kids are tangled up so tight Mack’s not sure where one of ‘em ends and the other begins.

Or it would be easier, if that kid hanging around outside his door would dig up the balls the knock. Something had him wound up tight at the range, an echo of it leaching into Mack every time he got close. A couple times the kid had been doing fine, even if his eyes spent more time on Mack instead of the target. There’d been no need for Mack to muscle up against him, correct a problem that wasn't there, except to see how well the kid did with the pressure on.

Not bad, turns out. Not good enough, but it's not a rifle they're planning on putting in his hands. Either Chuck Hansen's got guts or just something to prove.

Like the kid knows Mack's done taking his measure, he knocks.

Mack opens the door, leaving plenty of space for him to take it as an invitation in. Chuck's got one hand shoved in a pocket, the other full of a couple Aussie brews, and a chip on his shoulder that starts to melt the second he lays eyes on Mack. Stripped to the waist, Mack lets him look.

“Sir,” Chuck says, belatedly dragging his gaze up.

“Don't think you came down here to sir me,” Mack says, eyeing the beer. He prods the kid into stepping over the threshold with a jerk of his chin. “Or did you?”

“No.” Chuck sets the bottles down on the dresser. His posture says he's ready for a fight. It doesn't match the way his gaze skips south one more time before he says, “Unless you want me to.”

“Boy,” Mack says, and the same as on the range, he can trace the way the word snakes along Chuck's spine. Not old enough to drink yet and they've got this kid's days numbered. Mack doesn't know much about the Drift but he's heard the stories, how the pilots burn hot and fast and don't trust easy. Why Chuck's not already as tangled up as the rest of the Academy, why he’s down here looking to put that trust in Mack instead, isn't something that needs figuring out. It's something that needs doing. “You better speak plain with me or this isn't gonna go the way you think it is.”

That gets the kid's hackles up same as it knocks him for a loop. He makes a good show of covering it up by turning to flip the lock on the door. When he turns back, Mack shrugs, grabs a beer to crack the top on the edge of the dresser. He looks the kid up and down as he drinks. Chuck takes the scrutiny without flinching. “Whip it out, kid. Show me what you got to work with.”

Chuck's lips part on a noise that might've been another _sir_ if it weren't so choked.

“That is what you're here for, isn't it?” Mack takes another slow pull off the bottle and watches Chuck's gaze slide south. The kid's rock-hard in a pair of old jeans that look more like they belong to a crewman than a pilot, but the only dick it seems he's got any interest in right now is Mack's. “Better start talking if you want to get a hand on it.”

“Yeah,” Chuck says, back straight and shoulders square. Kid’s still got some growing to do, but it’s easy to see where he’s going to fill out. Another year or two will put some real muscle on those broad shoulders. “Yeah, it's why I'm here.”

“So get to it.”

The kid hesitates. He's got this look on his face like he heard the words just fine but doesn't trust them. He's staring square at Mack as he shrugs out of his jacket, lets it crumple to the carpet and puts hands to his belt like he's expecting a reprimand. Discipline's easy enough to hand down if that's what he wants, but that look he's still wearing isn't one of anticipation. That look says he's expecting a kick in the ass when Mack steps close, not a kiss.

It's a little too sweet for Mack's taste, not shy exactly but proof that Chuck's been kissing boys and girls up at the Academy, not men in motel rooms. A few fingers to Chuck's jaw changes the angle, a thumb near his lips gets his mouth open wider. He doesn't startle when Mack's tongue pushes in, just takes it until he figures out what to do and then he's pushing back harder, grabbing at the back of Mack's neck and hanging on tight.

“Better,” Mack says when he kid pauses for a breath, and the kid flashes him the cocky smile that's earned him that ego. He surges close again, sloppy in his enthusiasm until Mack takes hold of him by the jaw again to tone it down, turn the twist of Chuck's tongue against his easier, filthier in the slow rhythm of it. The fingers Chuck's got digging into the meat of his back ease up, skid south. Mack lets him worm a couple under the waistband of his jeans before firming his grip on Chuck's throat, using it to pry him off and give him a shove towards the door.

“Fuck,” Chuck spits, slumped against it, breathing hard. “What the hell're you--”

“Watch your mouth,” Mack says, running his thumb along the edge of his lip where the kid's spit is drying. “I told you to do something.”

It takes Chuck a couple seconds to shake that off and start in on his belt again. He's clumsy with it, stealing too many upward glances at Mack's face. The third time his fingers skid off the zipper as he's trying to tug it open, Mack moves to set his beer down.

“I got it,” Chuck snaps, like that would've been the end of this there. He shoves his hand in and hauls his cock out. He hesitates before tucking the band of his shorts against the shaft, then pushes at the flaps of his open fly, making sure they're folded out of the way. “Are you gonna show me yours or what?”

Mack props an elbow on the dresser and leans back. The kid looks good, flushed dark and thick. Being stared at only makes his dick fatten up all the more, the tip catching on his shirt and staining it wet. Like he's still waiting for Mack to pull the plug, Chuck inches a hand closer to his cock, startling when Mack says, “Come over here.”

There's only about five steps between them but Chuck makes it seem like twice that, wetting his lips once halfway through and then again when he's close enough to take another kiss if he wants one. “Not hard enough for me yet,” Mack says, and quirks half a smile at the disbelief that widens Chuck's eyes. “What happened to that boner you walked in here with? You either fix that, or stand there drooling all over yourself while your dick gets cold, up to you.”

Chuck's got a hand on it long before Mack's done talking. His balance wavers slightly with the first slow tug, too much of his attention still on Mack. It takes another few strokes and a raised eyebrow for him to get it together enough to realise what Mack's aiming for, and then he's settling into it, shoulders back, chest out, legs spread. He pushes the hem of his shirt out of the way and holds it there with his arm, already too busy shoving his shorts further down to bother with pulling it off. He lays bare the whole spread for Mack like he thinks it'll cover up the way his abs tremble, nerves a solid hitch in his rhythm.

“That's it,” Mack says, hooking a finger in his loose jeans to pull him in closer. Chuck's knuckles graze where Mack's hard behind a few layers of cotton and groans loud enough to drown out the small sound Mack keeps trapped in his throat. “Good boy, just like that.”

Chuck's voice breaks on a half-swallowed word. He lists forward, resting his forehead on Mack's shoulder and still going like he's not trying to hide the sudden flush on his face. It turns even the tips of his ears red. Mack touches his mouth to the shell of one to find it as hot on his lips as it looks. He says, “That's why you're here,” soft and low in Chuck's ear, an arm around Chuck's waist as the kid slumps harder against him, shaking. “You don't just want to hear me tell you you're a good boy, you want to earn it. Make me proud. Don't you?”

Chuck doesn't say anything, his hand stilled, the back of it pressed lightly to Mack's cock. His breath's coming too fast, too heavy for how still he is, hot then cool by turns on Mack's bare skin. A hand run down his back only makes him tremble harder, but, “Chuck,” gets a noise out of him, reassurance enough that whatever's going on inside the kid's head, he's listening. His fingers twitch when Mack shifts, his hand caught between them now instead of hovering there uncertainly. An order would do it, but Mack uses a hand to lift Chuck's chin, guide him in for a kiss that's either going to put him back in his skin or shatter it entirely. Mack's got few doubts about the one he's laid his money on.

Like the first one, the kiss starts out soft and easy, but this time around, Chuck's the one who steps it up. In the space of a heartbeat his mouth goes from slack beneath Mack's to demanding Mack quit fucking around and stick his tongue in it. Mack holds off the few seconds more it takes the kid's patience to dry up, waiting for Chuck to get so absorbed in trying to suck Mack's tongue into his mouth that he doesn't pay the hands Mack's got spread out on his ass any mind until they're hauling him in tight. Breath explodes into Mack's mouth on a groan, the kid's mouth gone slack again, all his attention on yanking his hand out of there as fast as he can to fuck his cock against Mack's, the bare skin of Mack's belly worth the scrape of his jeans.

“There you go,” Mack says, squeezing the kid's ass before giving it a little slap. He'd put another bill down on pain not being Chuck's thing, but the slap earns him a gasp anyway. He tests out another, pieces clicking into place as smoothly as Chuck stretches out long and lean under his hands. The same as on the range, Chuck is a fast learner, scraping his teeth on Mack's lips to keep them flush and sensitive, soothing with his tongue before he bites again, harder than before. Mack's gone from thick in his jeans to fully hard and ready, pressed so tight against denim that it's tipping over the line from pleasurable to painful. From the way the kid's grinding up on it, he knows it, too.

“Got yourself hard and me too,” Mack says, and sure enough, it gets the kid groaning louder. “Yeah, figured you’d like that idea. But are you gonna waste more time with this heavy petting shit or are you gonna haul it out and see for yourself?”

Another groan and Chuck goes still, chest heaving against Mack's. He eases back way too slowly for how worked up he is, gaze skipping quickly over Mack's face, landing instead on where all that grinding has Mack's belly smeared wet. His hand's shaking when he touches it, shaking worse still when he goes for Mack's fly. All the worked-up fumbling around is flattering, sure, but it’s burning fast through Mack’s patience. The noise Chuck lets out when Mack grabs his wrist is high and broken and scorches what’s left to ash. “Playtime's over,” he says, the flash of alarm on Chuck's face settling to a darker disappointment in the time it takes him step away from the dresser. It doesn't waver much when Mack hauls him along for the ride. “On the bed, kid.”

Another push gets Chuck stumbling on ahead. He turns on his heel in the middle of it, stumbling again, this time over his own two feet. By the time he reaches the bed, he's worked his way around to the mess he was outside Mack's door. He says, “So you got a thing for smacking people around or what, old man?” sharp and bitter while he's in the middle of hauling his shirt off. Like he's not yet used to them, he gets his dogtags tangled up in it, as quick to free them as he is to flush a deeper red. Could be a young soldier's stung pride; Chuck's got plenty. But pride isn't what kept the kid from perfect marks on the range today.

Mack says, “Sit down,” and the kid goes slowly, perching on the very edge of the mattress. “You run your mouth all you want, but if you want to go, the door's right there. I'm not interested in making that call for you, you got it?”

“Sure, yeah,” Chuck says, exactly like the sullen kid he is. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Good.” The way Chuck's spine straightens when Mack kicks at the inside of his foot, getting his knees spread wide so Mack can step between them, is more like it. “I hope that means you're ready to quit this spoiled brat bullshit.”

Reaching again for Mack's fly, Chuck hesitates at the button. Waiting for the cuff on the head Mack hasn't given him yet, and that gets Mack wondering. Not much about the kid screams tough love. There's no marks on him, old or new, and he doesn't flinch at the hand Mack sets to his shoulder. Putting hands on him doesn't rile the kid up half as much as taking them off again.

Seems he takes that touch as the permission already given and tugs Mack's fly open, breath whistling through his teeth when all he finds is skin. He barely hesitates this time, flicking Mack one quick glance before he shoves his hand in, grip tight as he hauls Mack's cock out. He makes another one of those noises, broken and eager all at once, and leans back slightly, letting the lamp's heavy yellow light wash away the shadows. Plain simple want is stamped clear on Chuck's face, and it nails Mack as hard as the tug Chuck gives him, easy and slow like his hand knows exactly what to do here but his head needs a minute to catch up.

The kid's no shrinking violet. He doesn't need Mack's hand cupping the back of his neck to urge him on. The touch goes through him like he's starving for it anyway, his eyes slipping shut as he leans in close. He's not shy when he puts his mouth to the shaft, lips parted and wet like he's pictured the whole thing from start to finish already, planned out exactly what he's gonna do and how he's gonna do it when he got the chance. But Mack's been hard for awhile now, his skin damp with it and spreading thick on Chuck's tongue. Chuck's hands are shaking again. Mack's not fool enough to believe it’s him and him alone that’s getting to the kid like that, but it’s hard not to bask in it. Harder still not to play to it. The kid’s as tangled up as the rest of the poor fuckers, but unlike them, nobody’s gonna hold his hand, tell him it’s alright. Could be this is a version of that comfort, but Mack’s not fool enough to believe that, either. 

“Don't tease,” Mack says, burying his fingers deeper in Chuck's hair. Chuck responds immediately, mouth opening on a low moan that he's quick to muffle around the head of Mack's cock. He startles like he's not at all expecting the thicker swell of Mack's cock at the noise and the heat, moans like the fresh rush of flavour on his tongue is some sort of reward. “Like that, that's my good boy,” gets him moaning louder and stuffing his mouth full, careless with his teeth and gagging. If Mack hadn't figured Chuck out several times over since he walked into the room, that right there would be proof enough for it all.

Chuck pulls off none too gently, rasping, “Fuck,” as he coughs and wipes at his mouth. He's got that look again, beaten down dog that's never felt a kick. “Sorry.”

“Should be,” Mack says, wrapping his hand around Chuck's on his cock to firm the kid's grip back up. “Barely got it wet before you spit it out.” Chuck swallows hard, flinging another wary glance down. Might be the kid's first time with another dick in the equation, but if that was what he was second-guessing every five minutes, Mack would've had him out the door long ago. A slow squeeze to the back of his neck brings the kid back in close, eyes on Mack this time as his mouth opens. He licks at his lips not like he's cocksure and putting on a show, but like he wants to be ready, like he wants to make the slide of Mack's dick over them and onto his tongue as good as he can.

Mack says, “Not so sloppy,” and Chuck straightens up from where he's hunched over, bringing his other hand up from the bed to brace on Mack's thigh. He clues in and firms up his lips a second later. He's too focused on tracing every ridge and vein he can find with the flat of his tongue to manage much more than a few messy bobs of his head. Mack presses his fingers harder against Chuck's scalp, rubbing a little as he urges Chuck to take a little more. He eases up when Chuck's back heaves, but Chuck barely pulls back, riding it out with his mouth still full. The kid's sinking back down again all on his own a second later. Could be the tinge of pride pooling with the heat in Mack's belly has no business being there, but there it is just the same.

“You want to be a real good boy, make me come?” Mack asks, letting loose the groan that's been building in his chest when Chuck looks straight up at him, lips and tongue still busy. Mack thumbs at the corner of his mouth and the kid moans, both hands clenching tight. “Gonna have to suck.”

Chuck goes for it right out of the gate, cheeks hollowing. Mack's knees go weak, firmed up again before the kid notices, but for sure he's noticed the grip Mack's got on his hair. He leans into it, bare scrap of a rhythm lost again, nothing but heat and pressure on Mack's dick. Mack's gotten scores better head in his life, no question. Even had people as eager to get up on it as this kid is. But even then, Mack's never been first on their mind, never seen anything so plain as the need to please that's riding Chuck as hard as the devil. Not a hand on him and the kid's as hard as he was ten minutes ago.

A simple word of praise narrows Chuck's focus even more, his eyes sliding shut again as he responds to the pressure of Mack's hand on his head. A few passes it all it takes for him to fall into the exact rhythm Mack wants, one where Mack's dealing with twin urges to let the kid keep going until his jaw's aching and to hold the kid still, fuck his face and listen to him whine for it. The kid's almost whining already, a thin, thready noise caught high in his throat. Spit smears his chin and there's colour creeping down to his chest, his body trembling with the need for a deeper breath, but he doesn't stop.

Only a little steadier than the kid, Mack says, “Open your eyes.” Chuck moans in response and that's it, brow furrowed as he sucks harder, hand and head moving in tandem despite Mack's grip on his hair. “Chuck, look at me,” he tries, struggling to hold on. He didn't think he'd get so close so fast, but he can't say he's disappointed about it. Chuck's got no flair, no fancy tricks, just brute force desire, and he's about ten seconds away from getting exactly what he wants. From where Mack's standing, the kid deserves it.

“Boy,” Mack grates, and smacks a hand lightly against Chuck's cheek, barely enough to startle him into finally looking up. “That's it, that's right. You look at your daddy when you make him come.”

A groan rips its way free from Chuck, loud and raw. Chuck's mouth goes slack but it doesn't matter, the kid's already finished him. He drops a hand heavily to Chuck's shoulder to hold himself up as he comes, the wide, shocked flash of the kid's eyes the last thing he sees before his squeeze shut. He's not sure which one of them manages to get their hands moving on his dick again, just that Chuck is the one who keeps it going, strokes hitched and shaky but enough to make sure everything Mack's got to give is milked straight onto his tongue. Even then, Chuck doesn't stop. His mouth's already full up of spunk but he crams Mack's cock back in there anyway, lips clamped tight and a couple rough sucks close to putting Mack on his knees. If Mack had a grain of sense, he'd say stop, that's enough. He wouldn't cradle Chuck's face in his hands, wouldn't let the high make him stupid honest, wouldn't say, “Knew you'd be good for me, daddy's sweet boy. Making me come so hard can't wait for you to do it again.”

But the sounds Chuck makes when he does, the way Chuck pulls off and nuzzles up to his spit-soaked cock like he's fucking grateful Mack let him suck it, that's worth it. Being wanted like that's addictive. So he keeps talking, calls Chuck his good boy again and soaks up the way it makes him tremble, clutching Mack close and smearing his own face wet with Mack's come. He says, “It's okay, daddy's got you,” and knows it won't do a damn thing to ease Chuck back from the edge. The kid's coming with a whine and probably doesn't even know it, but he looks good like that, damn good. He gets it all over himself and only seems to realise it when Mack pets his hair and tells him to fucking breathe.

Embarrassment sets in fast. Chuck goes to pull away with the aftershocks still riding him. Mack holds tight, says, “Think it's my turn now,” as the kid tries to jerk away again. Breathing space might be good for him, but it still doesn't strike Mack as what the kid needs most. Mack rubs a thumb against his cheek and considers waiting for either the shame or the anger to edge the other out. Chuck just seems the type to get torn up in the process.

“You heard me,” Mack says, tilting the kid's face up, though Chuck's turning fast to a prickly ball of resentment and refuses to look Mack in the eye. “You gonna back talk me about it, or are you gonna get your ass up on that bed and let me call you son while I get another one of those out of you?”

Chuck's gaze snaps to Mack's face. Right away, seems like all he wants to do is look away again. He could, easy. Mack's not holding him that tight.

“Edge is off now, isn't it? Didn't even get out of your damn pants. Maybe I wanted to take those off you, see how nice you grew up,” Mack says, and Chuck's got a different tension stringing him tight than the one he'd carried in over the threshold. This one doesn't ease when Mack leans down close enough to smell his spunk smeared on the kid's face. “Kiss my boy's saucy mouth for him and tell him he's got a nice big dick, just like his daddy.”

Chuck swallows raggedly, so loud it sounds like it hurts. He's shaking again. Kid's got so much in him it's a wonder he hasn't split his own skin.

“Put my hands on you,” Mack tells him, Chuck's breath hot on his lips. “Let you show me how proud a man can be when his son's as good as you are.”

“Fuck,” Chuck breathes, “fuck, _Dad_ ,” and bruises Mack's mouth with a kiss.


End file.
